


Expensive Taste

by purglepurglepurgle



Category: Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997)
Genre: Company Politics, Gen, I'd kind of like to revisit this from each different perspective, I'm surprised there's not more fic about the board of directors; I live for company-politics fic, Money, Shinra board of directors, a few kinds of tension, business expenses, ludicrous numbers because hey it's shinra, much implication afoot, not subtle unfortunately, try me again in twenty years, uncomfortable meal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-18 18:41:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20317684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purglepurglepurgle/pseuds/purglepurglepurgle
Summary: As often as they can get away with it, the Shinra Board of Directors go out for a company-funded meal. Reeve's resigned to the ritual, but this one's even worse than usual...





	Expensive Taste

"Who's getting it this time?" said Scarlet, eyes on the bill. Outside the opera house restaurant, the winds howled as the winter snowflakes whirled, angry ghosts in the dark. Inside, the Board of Directors were safe in their bubble. Golden light glittered off the glass of wine Scarlet gripped between clawed, red fingernails. The liquid slopped against the sides; this wasn't the first glass of the evening. Beside her, Heidegger gulped his beer, as Palmer fumbled sugar cubes out of a bowl on the table and munched on them absentmindedly. His shirtcuffs were stained with the sauces that had smothered their many courses that night. Hojo drummed his fingers; bony as ever; he barely ate. Newly promoted, Tseng sipped on his drink-- the same one that had been poured when they first sat down. Reeve was impressed. He didn't know how the Turk managed the restraint, in this crowd. For his own part, he'd reached the point where the walls were starting to sway. Only option.

"It's Reeve's turn, gya ha ha!" Heidegger elbowed him, hard.

Reeve gave a thin smile. "It'll have to be someone else this time, I'm afraid. I still don't have access to the new expenses portal."

The other Directors looked at him, blankly.

"My login doesn't work," he tried to explain. "They think it'll take a few weeks to fix. So I can't submit the receipts. You'd all have to make separate reports and pay me back; it's not worth it."

_And I'd never see the money again._

Hojo looked at him for a long moment, head tilted so he was _literally_ looking down his nose at Reeve. "_What_," he said, at last, "are you talking about?"

"I can't make an expense report," said Reeve, wondering what was so difficult to understand.

"Expense report?" said Hojo. "Do you not have a _card_?"

Everyone at the table stared at him. Reeve felt his face growing hot, only partly from the wine.

"What card?" he said, with a sinking feeling.

That tipped it.

"Kyahahahahaha!"

"Gyahahahahaha!"

They literally _rocked_ with laughter. Other diners turned to stare at their table. Hojo didn't laugh out loud, but he looked amused. Heidegger slammed the table with a fist. Palmer was giggling, though Reeve got the impression he didn't actually know what the others were laughing at. Only Tseng didn't react, looking off into the distance, sipping his whiskey.

Scarlet wiped away a tear of laughter with one blood-red fingernail. "Look," she commanded. She pulled out her purse-- crimson chocobo leather, probably killed 30 chicks to make it, studded with crystals. Reeve pictured children in the mines. Scarlet reached into the purse-- moogle-fur lining, good God-- and whipped out a bright red, diamond-shaped card. "Shinra Platinum. They give them to all the Directors--" She smirked. "Well, _almost_ all." She tapped the edge of the card against the table. "I don't remember exactly how much it runs to. I've never managed to max it out."

_Bet that's not for lack of trying_, thought Reeve, his cheeks scorching.

"Everyone's got one?" he said lightly.

Heidegger, still chortling, opened his wallet and pulled out a navy rhombus. Hojo nodded, though he made no move to prove it; he looked as though he considered that beneath him. Palmer dug in his pocket, then started waving his arm around.

"Mine's gold! Gold!"

"That means it's worth less," said Scarlet. She turned to Reeve, and gave him a smile of mock-sympathy. "I hope they decide you're worthy of one soon. It makes you feel much more valued, as an employee."

"I'll bring it up," Reeve promised, silently seething.

Scarlet nodded, smug as a cat. Reeve half expected to see fangs when she smiled. She turned back to Heidegger, all business. "How much is yours worth, then?"

"Hundred thousand, but I'm getting it increased."

"You should ask for at least five hundred." Scarlet visibly relaxed. "They tried to fob me off with two hundred, at first. I said, 'I'm sorry, do you expect me to go to the _slums_ to wine and dine our clients?'"

"Well, I think your dinners are a waste of time." Hojo set down his glass of water. "But it's true that you get what you pay for. Especially for equipment, despite what our President would prefer to believe."

"Oh, don't get me started on procurement." Scarlet took a drink. The glass came down again, hard. "But you're wrong about the dinners. It's about _standards_. There are people who matter, and those people will jump into bed with Godo the _moment_ they think Shinra's in trouble. So buy the meal; throw the party; it pays for itself. If you _don't_ spend the money, that's when you're in danger. You look weak. And, more importantly, it's about who's there. They're expecting to see the real people, not some worthless go-betweens. And _I_ don't get out of bed for less than a million. I know my worth."

The group laughed and clinked glasses. Reeve went along, praying the waiter would come back soon and he could finally ditch the lot of them. He ran through his excuses in his head.

"Tseng?" said Scarlet, voice sharp, cutting through Reeve's reverie. "Not joining in?"

"I was miles away," said the Turk, blandly. His glass was still half-filled, somehow. "What are we toasting?"

"Spending Shinra's money," said Scarlet.

"Ah, I can drink to that," said Tseng. He clinked his tumbler against the others.

"So," said Scarlet, eyeing him thoughtfully, "How big is yours?"

"My what?" said Tseng.

Palmer started giggling again.

"Your expense account." Scarlet glared at Palmer.

"Oh,” said Tseng. “I don't have one.” He took a long drink of whiskey, drawing the moment out. "When I need money for something, I just ask Rufus directly."

The other Directors stopped laughing. Scarlet couldn't hide the rage in her eyes. For the first time that evening, Reeve felt something approaching enjoyment.

"Fine," said Scarlet, at last. "You can get this meal, then."

"Sure."

Tseng paid. Reeve found he didn't need the excuses he'd been working on since they first sat down; the others shoved their coats on in silence, and stumbled from the table. He waited for Scarlet and Heidegger to reach the doors; he pretended to dither over the tip (what a surprise; they'd left it all to him, again). He wondered if Tseng were taking his time for the same reasons; you could never tell what that man was thinking, but Reeve doubted it actually took him this long to pull on a coat. Turks must have some kind of training for that, coat-pulling-on-in-emergencies...

He reached for his own coat, and stumbled. Tseng caught his arm.

"Should I call you a cab?" said Tseng. Reeve suspected Tseng was mocking him.

"I'll be alright. Just need some fresh air."

"Well, Midgar's the place," said Tseng. He slid his wallet into his pocket. A lock of dark hair fell over his shoulder. Reeve wondered if Tseng ever did hair-modelling. He decided he was not drunk enough to ask.

They headed toward the exit. By leaning against Tseng, Reeve managed to keep his balance, though he wasn't so sure about his judgement. "That was a lie, wasn't it?" he said, as they reached the doors. He felt the cold, winter draft on his legs. He made a mental note to get a new coat, a good, long one like Tseng's. "That was a lie," he repeated, not sure if he'd said it the first time, "about asking Rufus, right?"

"I was joking." Tseng gestured at the step in warning, as they left the restaurant. "Knock on his door for every business expense? He'd pull out the shotgun."

"They didn't know you were joking." Reeve felt smug.

"No," said Tseng. "It's a shame. I spoiled the mood. We missed out on the conversation about airmiles."

Reeve laughed, more loudly than he meant to. "I owe you."

**Author's Note:**

> Misc worldbuilding: the Turks mostly use prepaid cards, to make expenditure less traceable. The path the money takes onto the prepaid cards is a total mystery.
> 
> On a separate note, if you're ever considering bringing up the merits of Delta Gold vs Airfrance Whateverthefuck, do your dinner guests a favour and just scream wordlessly at them for 30 minutes instead. ;D


End file.
